a place to put things, like a shelf

Dear world, I have been considering the selfish nature of conversation, how vocalizing or writing or whatever it is to another I inevitably stumble upon something of myself, or at least something that came out of myself, that I will hold onto. This way of discussing, particularly effective in the most long form version that comes from writing letters, where there is ample time to think or not think before you speak, and sit with it before it is heard, reminds/explains to/shows me what I've been keeping inside. Does that render this sort of quasi letter to no one an even more self-centered task? Or am I relieved of the burden of am I talking about myself too much when it's not directed at anyone in particular. This act of writing is more about documenting. It is okay to speak into the nothingness that is everything online. I want to share. N and I had a wonderful trip to New York, brief as time always feels there, yet important. It was nice to step out of life and run the water ...

Dear me! I'm not sure if I'm starting to enjoy the cold blanket that lays over our heads or if I have simply given into the fact that it is a fact (no -oid). I'm unfolding a thought that heavily relies on experience-- in no new way yet reconfiguring. I don't often share the "behind the scene(s)" occasional heavy reliance upon the computer. These images I'm making feel so certain and yet permeable. Which is reflective of both the content and the process. Paper is so universal yet also fickle. I think I enjoy that, the needing something concrete to work from while also being subject to change. I was having a conversation with A + C about the state of creating, being an artist or maker or in today's day and age content creator. He said that the camera ruined painting. Maybe I am finding a way to let the camera in, considering the histories of process. In touch with the innovations of past tomorrows, while also maintaining the hand. One off isn't just ...

Dearest ummmmmm yeah Nearest, Today is a good day, a day like many other days where my toes and my nose are nearly froze, a day for saying and for doing and hopefully thinking, thinking about thoughts I would like to think. Yesterday N and I played in the snow, target practice against a big tree, trying to hit the nob with fingers in work gloves unprepared for things like throwing or freezing temperatures. Thank goodness for good things like full sun and laughing. It wasn't until I changed my target that I hit it right on the head. That must be reflective of something. I've started working for Naples, and I am enjoying the casual atmosphere within a procedural structure. That seems like a good balance to have, room to play but a way things are done. Yesterday we finished another maybe third of the flooring in the bedroom. Words to the wise! Furnish only after the floors are down, or else you'll be playing a game of move this there and that yonder again and again. I'm fa...

Dear Diary, seems more accurate-- I find myself here, in 2025, trying to keep pushing the boulder. I'm at a junction of sorts, perhaps arbitrarily as it seems I might have already passed the threshold of deciding. While my practice has been put aside, I find myself stepping into the role of a different type of maker, a builder, a contractor perhaps, a diy-er definitely.  This cabin, this fancy pants tent, has become the project on my horizon, I'm already knee deep in it. December was a month of everything that could go wrong, going wrong, and gratitude for all the hands that helped me right it. On top of everything December was the month I welcomed Nael back into my world, with just as much love and tenderness and aching as ever. Having a prop to keep my head above water, and an extra pair of hands to run the water gauntlet with, has made me more capable and tired. I can finally unclench and lay my head in a caring lap. Now, how to keep momentum and vigor while being so gentle,...

Dear Readers or something formal like To Whom I am Reaching— I feel filled by so many familiarly new changes that I have found within me the desire to do something like yell into the void that is an online blog. Something about the inside-ness of an oncoming winter season always ignites my desire to write— and to find any (varyingly) warm sun spot. I have spent the last season or so quietly compiling the ideas of what I might want, you know, like take off or landing when you can see the map but can also still imagine how big things are in relation to your body. All that to say I wanted to have a way to reach out a hand, or a voice, and to create an appendix of time (an organ one can live without, but while I can I’ll keep). Currently, and maybe a little bit always, I am drawn to warmth. I sit by the fire in my cabin in the woods and I sometimes am filled with the endless inspiration and joy and desire to be alive that exists in part within me, and in part in things like the fire in my ...